


Scapegoat

by orphan_account



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-25
Updated: 2015-11-25
Packaged: 2018-05-03 07:06:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5281409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The world is lost. Bill has won. Ford is caught in the aftermath, trapped at Bill’s side as his right hand man in the unfolding chaos. But of course, someone has to answer for the crimes of Stanford Pines… so it may as well be Stanley, right?</p>
<p>Ford is Bill’s Prince. Stan is Ford’s Scapegoat. And Bill? Bill’s just getting started.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scapegoat

**Author's Note:**

> In which Ford ruins everything because of his stupid anger issues and pride about his brother and his weird mixed feeling, Stan is stupid and loves his brother anyway, and Bill just finds the whole thing a hilarious show and can’t wait to see what it’ll take to bring out that charming slightly misanthropic scientist who used to dissect living creatures for knowledge back in the day.
> 
> Mostly it's just an excuse for Stanley whump and delving into Ford's potential to be hella dark, I admit it. Also Ford guilt and angst is my jam.
> 
> So this whole thing is… actually a big idea and I have a lot of places I’d like to go with it. Unfortunately, I don’t have a lot of time– it took me a month to even write this first chapter. I am in love with the idea and I’d like to write what I can, however, so I will try to update this when I can in between my other fifty bazillion terrible Stancest and gen discipline fic sins. We shall see. If anyone has any ideas or anything they'd like to see, I'd love to hear it! Maybe I'll put it into the fic. Anyway, onward!

He’d lost.

Ford knew it long before it really happened. Knew it before Dipper had laid the final chalk mark on the circle, felt the fact in his gut even as he gave the boy that confident nod of affirmation. The knowledge tugged his heart to the earth even as magic thrummed through his bones and set his nephew’s birthmark and his niece’s heart aflame, even as the symbols came together, even the world twisted and bent in the throes of a battle it would not win.

And of course, it did not. Because even as the battle raged above, there on the circle two symbols remained unconnected, his hand and his brother’s hat remaining dull and quiet even as the others roared to life. He did not look even as he felt Stan’s eyes on him, even as he heard the panicked rage in his brother’s tone, caught the accusations that should have been swallowed up in the heat of battle.

“What the _hell_ , Stanford!? Even now, you can’t—“

When the smoke cleared and the magic ebbed away, when the energy gun tumbled from Ford’s hands, it was more a period on a sentence than the catastrophic event it ought to have been. The numbness only gave way to terror when dozens of black hands hefted his broken nephew up from the rubble, put him front and center in the gaze of an all-seeing eye.

“No!” Ford had cried from his blood-splattered resting place on the ground “No, stop, don’t touch him!”

The eye had turned to him, more for show than anything, because of course Bill saw everything now. “What’s that Sixer? Makin’ demands again?”

“D-don’t—“ Ford gave a cough, a wheezing, agonized thing lacing through broken ribs. “The boy did nothing. It’s me you want. It was my plan, my fault, he didn’t—“

“Whoa, whoa, calm down there Poindexter!” Bill exclaimed in a jovial tone that did not suit the situation. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, Pine Tree _was_ the one throwing magic in my face, but still…” The slitted pupil flitted back to the boy in question. Dipper dangled before him, seemingly barely aware of his own thin arm clutched in the fist of darkness. Ford watched as a many toothed grin stretched across the face of blackness.

The fist squeezed. There was a snap. Dipper threw back his head and howled, legs kicking out on reflex, eyes widening in pain and shock. And still, as he writhed, the pupil turned back to Ford and the scientist felt his blood run cold.

“You really think I don’t know whose fault this is?”

There had been nothing but screams after that. 

—

Ford was not sure how long he’d been waiting. Hours. Days. Weeks. It felt like all time and no time, and really, Ford supposed it didn’t matter. After watching his nephew be broken, Ford had been swallowed by darkness, given only the promise that this was not the end. This was what he told himself as well, but with no tools at his disposal there was little he could do but pace in blackness.

Finally, however, the darkness fell out from beneath him. The author found himself unceremoniously dumped to the ground in an ungraceful heap, grunting when he hit the floor. 

“Well, well, well, if it isn’t my old friend…” Bill’s voice seemed to echo from everywhere and nowhere at once, the effect heightened by the all-encompassing, kalidescopic light of the stained glass behind him. “How ya feelin’, Stanford Pines?”

Ford grimaced as he got to his feet, a twinge of pain echoing through aged bones as he rose. “How do you think, you monster?”

“Oh, don’t make me break out the ‘you’ll make me blush’ line this early on, I’d hate to be called unoriginal!” Bill snickered. The demon floated above a raised, black dias, his triangular form artfully placed at the center of a swirling mess of chaotic red glass. He gestured with dark hands to twisting fractals of black and color, staircases that went everywhere and nowhere. “So, what do you think? Be honest!”

“Unoriginal,” Ford spat back at him. “I expected something a little less Dungeons, Dungeons and More Dungeons from you.”

“Ohohoho, fiesty!” The demon laughed and the whole room seemed to laugh with him. “Come on Sixer, let’s not get too sassy, it’s your creation as much as mine and we both know it. You shouldn’t tear down your work like that.”

“My work!? You think this is _my work_!?” Ford exclaimed. “This is your doing, Bill, and we both know it!”

“Oh, I’d love to say that, Sixer, but I think it’s important to give credit where credit’s due,” Bill drawled as he lounged in the air. “I mean, the kids made some dumb moves, don’t get me wrong, but they didn’t go and punch a hole through time and space in their basement, did they?”

Ford’s hands clenched into fists at his sides. “You tricked me.”

“I tricked _you_!?” Bill exclaimed, pressing a hand to his front as if offended. “Whoa now, what part of credit where credit’s due were you not getting? Don’t get me wrong, I helped out a bit. I carried a number or two for you, gave you access to a few algorhythms that are impossible in this dimension. But I was just goin’ off all those big ideas you had cooped up in that noggin of yours—and don’t act like you didn’t have them, I was there! I saw all those little thoughts that you were better than everyone else, that your ideas were just too smart for your backwards family, for this backwards town, for this backwards little world. You wanted to be somebody, you wanted to be bigger… you were just missing a puzzle piece, and I fit that shape pretty well.” Here he actually shifted forms for a moment, twisted into a golden puzzle piece and flashed before giving another laugh. 

“I was just the muse. You’re the man who changed the world.”

As the demon’s words washed over him, Ford felt his throat constrict. Because they were true, of course they were true. They were the words that came to him every night when he’d tried to sleep, the guilt rising in his throat when he thought of the gaping maw he’d left in his basement. “I never wanted this,” He protested, but even to his own ears the words sounded pathetic.

“Didn’t you?” Bill asked.

Ford just glared at him.

Another laugh. The room rippled. “All right, keep being in denial if you want. It’s fine, I’ve got all the time in the world with that stupid Time Baby out of the way and all. In the meantime, though, I have a preposition for you.”

“I won’t take it,” Ford said coldly. “Whatever it is, I refuse.”

“Oh, come on, hear me out, Poindexter!” Bill snickered. “Now you see, here’s the thing. You’re smart for a meatbag, got a mind that really goes outside the box. You’re ambitious, always willing to do whatever it takes for your goals, and that little ruthless streak of yours, hoo boy! Nothing like a trip through the multiverse to make you capable of cold-blooded murder for the quote unquote ‘greater good’, am I right? On top of all that, you’re real easy on the eye, if you know what I mean. The point is, I like you, Stanford Pines, and I really hope the feeling is mutual!”

At these words there was a puff of blue flames and a long, curling scroll appeared before the author, the paper stretching all the way to the dark floor.  Ford squinted at the words. “I like you. Do you like me? Check your answer below,” He read aloud, frown deepening as his eyes flicked across the various boxes. “These all say yes!”

“Whoa, weird, thing must be rigged,” Bill said dryily. “Or maybe I just see something in you that you don’t. Anyway, if you keep reading, you’ll see that there is a contract. I was serious about you joining me earlier, and even though you went and shot down my offer, I’m a forgiving shape. I could use somebody by my side— and don’t get me wrong, my friends are a blast, but they don’t have minds for middle management. Not like you.”

“So whatdya say, Fordsy? This is your ticket out of that pathetic meatsack of yours. You can have it all— cosmic power, immortality, all the ridiculous science mumbo jumbo you could ever want… all you gotta do is say yes.”

Ford’s eyes trailed down the contract, stomach twisting. “And what makes you think I would agree to this? I already said no to you once, why would this time be any different?”

“Oh, I’ve got a couple little somethings that might change your tune…” There was the thundercrack of Bill snapping his fingers and in a burst of light and color an orb appeared. Entwined within it, seemingly asleep, were the twins. Mabel’s hair encircled them like a halo, their small fingers clasped together in sleep.

“As you can see, they’re sleeping off that whole ‘having unimaginable power channeled through a living vessel’ thing, no thanks to you. And also me breaking every bone in their little preteen bodies— again, no thanks to you. But if you feel like saying no, I could wake them up…” Bill twitched his fingers. The orb flashed red and Ford caught a glimpse of limbs writhing, mouths opening in silenced screams—

“STOP!” Ford shouted, extending a hand toward the writhing mass. “Stop, stop, I’ll do it, stop!” His eyes flicked back to the contract and he reached for it with quivering hands…

Only to jump as it abruptly vanished, replaced with Bill’s amused, all seeing eye and a glowing blue hand extended for a shake. “I think you know how this works, Stanford Pines.”

Dark eyes flicked from the hand to the orb hanging in the air. Then, grimacing, Ford shook.

Laughter filled his ears instantly, coming from everywhere and nowhere at once. This was hardly a concern when contrasted with the blue flames that coiled their way up from his arm, swallowing him whole in a burst of white hot heat. Ford felt a scream tear from his throat before the fist of flames burned through his windpipe, felt the fire consume his clothes and his many fingers, felt it burning past skin and bone and through the very core of him, bathing him in liquid heat. It coiled through him and out of him, pouring from his eyes like tears, spitting from his mouth like bile.

Then it was over and Ford found himself dropping to his knees on the floor— he must have been lifted in the air at some point but he couldn’t remember. He hit with a gasp of pain, voice coming out in a shuddering gasp as he simply sat there for a moment.

“Well yeesh, _that_ was dramatic,” Bill said. “But I guess you’ve always been a bit of a theater junkie, huh? The look suits you… why don’t you check it out?”

The demon transformed, his body stretching to accomodate a mirror upon his flat face. Ford blinked in shock as he took in the sight of himself kneeling on the dark floor. His trenchcoat had been replaced by something far more impressive, a heavy, rich-looking dark fabric with small hints of glittering color woven within like a tapestry— a look that mirrored the castle around them. The coat trailed behind him like a cape, coiling in a way that seemed downright ridiculous. A golden crown rested upon his head, the metal curling and curving organically to mirror entwining tree branches. However, the thing that concerned him most were his eyes.

They were glowing a bright, brilliant blue.

“What… what did you do?” Ford gasped out.

“Oh, just brought out what you are. You know… what you **really** are, when we cut past what little humble nerd scientist. What you want, deep down.”

Ford let out something between a snort and a laugh— because what else could he do? “It’s a little showy, isn’t it?”

“Hey, you’re the one who wanted to be some kind of Genius King,” Bill shrugged as he returned back to normal. “Oh wait, sorry, you didn’t want this, my bad. Fine… let’s go with Prince for now, eh? Has a good ring to it, suits you.”

A scowl in response. “I am not, nor will I ever be such a thing to you.”

“Wow, rude much? I give you a gift and this is how you treat me? Though I guess you’ve never been one for saying ‘thank you’… it’s all right, I know you’re grateful deep down. Anyway, let’s get down to our next order of business.” Bill snapped his fingers and the space around them shifted. One moment Ford was standing, the next he was seated in a throne at the dream demon’s right hand. The motion stole Ford’s breath for a moment, which was fine since Bill seemed determined to keep talking.

“So there’s a problem, Sixer. I like you, I really do… but you messed up a lot, haven’t you? I know it, you know it, your whole family knows it. Don’t act like it doesn’t bother you, I’ve seen your mindscape. Your whole life is nothing but failures… and well, that kind of thing calls for some kind of retribution, doesn’t it?”

Ford stiffened in the throne.

“Yeah, that’s right, you’ll have to be punished… heck, deep down you want it, don’t you? Confusing mix of emotions you’ve got there, but I guess you’ve always been good at repressing. But of course there’s a problem with that, it wouldn’t be a punishment if you wanted it!” Bill laughed. “But don’t you worry, I’ve got a solution.” He snapped his fingers again.

The darkness shifted. One moment the floor before the dias was empty, the next Stan was there, kneeling on the floor and looking disoriented. The former man of mystery blinked in confusion as he gazed around, then rose awkwardly to his feet— something that proved somewhat awkward with his wrists bound by something dark and shifting. “…What in the name of Joseph’s technicolor dreamcoat?” He muttered to himself.

“Stanley Pines!” Bill chirped from the dias. “How’s it hanging? Tell me, as a man who’s _been_ to jail as much as he’s been out of it, how would you rate your comfort in my dungeon? Y’know, on a scale of one to ten? Go on, be honest!”

“Fuck you,” Stanley spat.

“I’ll take that as a ten,” Bill snickered, but his response went ignored as Stan looked to the man at his side.

“Ford!” He cried out. “What the hell are doing up there!? And… with a crown?” His brow furrowed, some of his anger temporarily belayed from sheer confusion.

“Stanley, it’s not what it looks li—“ Ford began to speak but was cut off by Bill’s laughter.

“Aw geez Sixer, you’re makin’ this whole thing sound like an affair. But I guess you had to replace that obsession with _something_ for all those years… gotta say, it’s real nice to finally meet the other girl face to face!”  Bill’s eyelash fluttered as he looked over to Ford for a moment. “Still, after me I didn’t think you were a man for curves. Quite the opposite in fact.”

“What are you even talking about?” Ford growled.

“Oh, fine, play dumb if you want, you’re really bad at it anyway.”

“Hello!?” Stanley snapped, pointing a finger at Ford. “Still standing right here. Still _pissed at your pretentious ass_ for the record! First you tell me we need your ridiculous magic mumbo jumbo to beat this guy and it calls for all that lovey dovey relationship crap and now you’re all buddy buddy with him!? Ford, y—” Abruptly his lips shivered, then snapped shut as if magnetized.

“I always forget you Pines have some mouths on you,” Bill sighed. “And don’t get me wrong, I’m loving the drama, but we’ve got business to attend to. So here’s the deal— Stanford Pines, you wanted it so badly and now the day’s finally here. Everything you’ve ever wanted, I’ve given you— knowledge, power, the world at your feet. You can finally have it all, all you gotta do is stick by me. But you _have_ done awful lot of dumb things, and that sort of thing calls for punishment. Stanford Pines is the man who brought the world to its knees and he’s gotta pay for it…”  His eye fell upon Stanford again, hungry, all seeing, and Ford felt a shiver run down his spine at the next words.

“But your name’s not really Stanford Pines anymore, is it?”

At these words there was an awful ripping noise, the sound of cloth tearing. Ford turned to see Stanley lifted in the air and struggling as his suit jacket and shirt were ripped from his back, thrown in tatters to the ground.

“Yeah, you gotta be punished, so here’s the deal. You can be at my side, be the Prince you’ve always wanted to be… and your punishment? It’ll go to your brother here. He’ll be your Scapegoat. That seems fair, right?”

“No!” Ford cried. “You leave him alone!”

Bill laughed. “The fact that you’re so against it tells me I had the right idea. Like I said, it ain’t a punishment if you want it, right? Though I guess even this is pretty light for you… he stole your name, after all. So he now he’s finally getting what he deserves. If anything, you should be happy!”

As he spoke, the clothing continued to be peeled from Stanley’s form. The black cloth of his slacks joined the tattered suit jacket on the floor, the dress shirt, undershirt and quickly following suit. His boxers, however, went mercifully untouched, their aged pattern looking decidedly out of place in the grandiose throne room. Stanley’s near naked body contorted in the air, round stomach and thick limbs curled in such a way that next to nothing was left to the imagination.

Ford averted his eyes, kept his glowing, enraged gaze upon Bill. “I never wanted this! Let him go, it’s me you want!”

“Ah, but I already have you,” Bill pointed out. “Why settle for one when I can have two and all the delicious drama that comes with it? Really, I’m surprised you care this much, you certainly didn’t seem to have much love for your dear brother when the world needed you to.”

“That doesn’t mean I want my brother _tortured_!”

“Mmm hmm. We’ll see. Anyway, I’ve had enough of this whole ‘denial’ stint.” Bill raised a hand. “Let’s do this properly, shall we?”

At these words, an orb of water appeared above Stan’s head, the shifting face of liquid glittering as it caught flashes of the light in the room. Then it dropped with a heavy crash, drenching Stanley from head to toe and dropping him to his knees with the sheer weight of it. With his lips still bound Stan could only give a gasp of shock, eyes widening. He began to shiver instantly, hair matting on thick arms as gooseflesh prickled in the cool room. His bound wrists were then lifted in the air by seemingly nothing and the old man was tugged forward, his wet legs dragging across the floor and giving a shrill, painful squeak as he moved.

There was a rumbling noise, something Ford felt reverberating in his skull as a thick black post rose from the ground at the bottom of the stairs that lead up to his throne. He watched as Stanley’s arms were released, then jerked around it. There was a click as they were latched in such a way so as to pull the man’s thick arms taut, leaving his broad shoulders and wide back well exposed. He knelt there at the foot of Ford’s throne, still shivering from the cold, his back displayed like an offering.

“You’re going to whip him,” Ford breathed out, expression one of horror.

“See? I knew I made the right decision, definitely got the smart twin here,” Bill snickered over the click of heels against polished obsidian.  

One of Bill’s friends— Pyronica, had that been her name? Ford couldn’t remember, but here she was, a cruel grin stretched across her face. A thick, black whip was stretched in her hands, long and clearly crafted from some sort of leather. She made an experimental crack in the air above Stanley’s head, snickering as the old man flinched on reflex.

“Well,” Bill said, eye turning to Ford. “How many lashes do you think you deserve, Stanford Pines?”

Ford paled, looking from Stanley’s tensed shoulders to his captor’s  amused gaze. “I… f-five?”

There was a loud, piercing shriek, clearly Bill’s idea of a game show buzzer. “Nice try, Sixer. You ruined the world, let’s hear a _good_ number.”

Ford swallowed as he looked back to his brother, caught Stanley’s the way the man’s jaw was set. Evidentally Stan was prepared to take whatever this was, and the steel in his expression and the practiced look of endurance unnerved Ford. Stan’s eyes flicked to his and Ford felt his stomach twist as his brother nodded, flashed him a grim smile that echoed beatdowns in school hallways and Stan’s broad shoulders coming between him and their father’s heavy hands.

How dare he act as if everything was going to be okay?

“Tick tock, Poindexter. You know, if you’re feeling that indecisive, I’m pretty fond of infinity myself…”

Ford shook his head, licked his lips as he tried to find his voice. “Thirty-nine is traditional,” He finally choked out.

He did not see so much as _feel_ Bill’s smile through the room. “I like the way you think, my Prince.” With those words he turned back to Pyronica. “Welp, you heard the man. Thirty-nine lashes. And y’know, take your time. I’d hate for Fordsy here to lose count.”

The demoness cackled, then turned back to Stanley and raised the whip. The leather uncoiled, dangled well behind her in a long, cruel length. Then she swung. The whip connected in an arc, split wet skin like as knife in a distinct line, left a thunderclap of noise in its wake. Stan’s lips finally loosened and he let out a scream that echoed through the room.

There was silence after the cry ended, the man gripping the post he’d been tied to, eyes squeezed shut as he let out several gasping breaths. Ford’s own hands gripped at the armrests of the throne, teeth locked in a grimace.

“Well?” Bill purred.

Ford swallowed. “One,” He choked past the lump in his throat.

“What was that? Sorry, can’t hear you, maybe we should start—“

“One!” The author barked, his tone taking on an authoratative boom that had even Pyronica flinching.

Again the whip cracked. This time Stanley seemed more prepared, teeth grinding together to hold his scream at bay, but the sound still echoed deep in his throat as the tails criss-crossed the previous set of lines.

“Two!” Ford called out even as his heart sank.

The third lash came down, wrapped around Stan’s shoulder, tracing like a knife across that old brand. Stan bucked against the post, let out a choked, strangled gasp. At four he bit down on his bottom lip, hard. By seven he’d bitten through, blood shining on his teeth as he grimaced in agony. He managed to main his relative silence for two more lashes, but lash ten drew another howl from him, had him pressing his forehead to the post as he fought for composure. He writhed on reflex against his restraints as if the movement could somehow avoid the snaking whip, though knelt and bound as he was there was little he could do.

And yet, in spite of it all, Stan’s gaze remained fixed on him. Sometimes he would squeeze his eyes shut against a blow, sometimes he’d shake his head, but he’d always return, gasping for breath and seeking. His gray hair hung in his eyes, mussed by water and sweat, but it did nothing to obscure his stormy gaze. They sought out his twin’s like a lifeline, joining the way his fingers twitched as if reaching for Ford’s hands.

It would almost seem tender if Stan’s expression were not one of fiery defiance, blooded jaw set in  a thick line.

At first, Ford had just felt shame. That look had to be anger, anger would make sense— after all, he’d gotten his brother into this situation and there was nothing he could do to stop it. This was far too much like when they were younger and Stan had been the one coming between Ford and their father, facing lashes from a belt while Ford was forced to hide away in their room. Stanley had never bemoaned him for that, but now was different.

Now had to be different, because how dare Stanley be able to forgive Ford when Ford could not do the same?

“Seventeen!” Ford counted out as Stan writhed against the post. Stan’s heavy, agonized breathing echoed through the room, small gasping ‘ah’s’ trailing from his lips. But still he said nothing, still his gaze sought Ford’s and in that moment Ford felt something in him twist.

How dare he.

Here they were in this situation that was out of both of their hands, something great and impossible and too far beyond either of them to apply to reason. It was cruel and unfair and utterly insane, and Stan should have been cursing him, should have been screaming Ford’s name, but he wasn’t.

He wasn’t and for whatever reason, Ford wanted him to.

_Crack_! The whip came down again and Stan’s eyes squeezed shut, severing the connection as his brother let out a groaning cry. “Twenty!” Ford snapped out, leaning forward and keeping an eye on Stan’s reaction. 

His brother shook against the post, something like a whine coming from his throat, but after a few seconds he met Ford’s eyes again. Sweat mixed with flecks of blood and as their warring gazes met, his brother flashed a bloodied and beaten grin.

Ford’s eyes flashed bright blue from beneath his gilded crown, teeth twisting into an angry snarl. “Twenty-one!” He roared before the whip even connected at the very center of Stan’s back. The blow echoed through the room, elicited a raw scream from Stan, had flecks of crimson spraying in the air and glinting like rubies in the rainbow light.

“Ohohohoho, are we finally gettin’ into it, Sixer?” Bill laughed beside him.

“Quiet!” Ford growled as he did not even spare the demon a glance. His eyes were only for Stan’s, watching his brother’s bowed head and waiting. Stan’s nostrils flared with hot breath, shoulders bent as if being crushed by a great weight. The hair on his arms and back glistened, matted by blood and sweat.

He looked up.

Something stirred in Ford, hot, angry, twisting in his stomach like a living thing as the whip swung again. “Twenty-two!”

“Sheesh, tone it down there Poindexter, I can’t exactly tell the two of you to get a room!” Bill exclaimed, continuing his part of the amused spectator. “And y’know, much as I’m enjoying your reactions, this _is_ meant to be a punishment… so let’s change it up, shall we _?_ ” He snapped his fingers.

In a flash of blue flames the whip split into nine seperate tails, sharp, jagged pieces of obsidian dangling at their ends. Upon noting the change, Pyronica gave a low whistle of approval, twirling the whip and listening to the jagged points click together rhythmically.

The fire in his veins cooled in an instant as Ford recalled just how impossibly damaging scourging a whipping victim had been according to research. He turned to Bill, eyes wide. “Wait, you can’t—“

The lashes came down, carved nine distinct lines into Stan’s heavily abused back, sent blood splattering to the floor. The bellow of agony that followed was loud, gutteral, laced with the underlying burn of vocal cords that were quickly growing hoarse. 

At the noise, Ford finally leapt to his feet. “Stop!” He cried out. “That’s enough!”

“What, trying to get out of your punishment now?” Bill snickered. “C’mon Fordsy, you know that’s not how it works.”

“You altered the deal!” Ford exclaimed. “We agreed to thirty-nine with the original whip, this is—“

“I never specified any of that and you know it. Take it from me, the sooner you work out the whole ‘exact wording’ thing, the better you’ll be for it.” Bill drawled as he inspected the ends of his nails. His single pupil then flicked back to Ford’s brilliant blue ones. “By the way, what number are we on again?”

“Bill…” Ford growled.

“I asked you what number you were on, _My Prince_ ,” Bill hissed, voice growing darker and deeper at the end. “If you’d rather start over…”

“Twenty-three!” Stan’s voice echoed from below— hoarse and pained, but still coming loud and clear. “You’re on twenty-three, Poindexter!”

Ford jumped and turned, meeting his brother’s eyes. “Stanley—“

“W-what, d’ya think I can’t count?” Stan gave a wheezing, forced laugh at that, resting his stubbled cheek against the post as he gazed upwards. “C’mon… after everything I’ve been through, this is— aaaah, this is nothing. We both know I can take a licking better than your skinny ass any day of the week. So get on with it!”

His brother gaped down at him for a moment. His mouth opened once, twice, clearly struggling with the words.

Bill gave a groan. “Oh, come _on_ —“

“Twenty-three,” Ford nodded, swallowed as his nails dug into the flesh of his palms.

The lashing continued. Each crack tore the flesh from Stan’s back and screams from his throat, had him writhing and gasping on his knees. He all but danced, back arching, shoulders bent in ways Ford would have thought difficult given his age. By blow twenty-six his voice had gone completely hoarse, blow twenty-nine left him producing keening, awful whines like a dying animal. Blow thirty caught him directly across a particularly deep gash, had him cracking his forehead against the post in a clear effort to distract himself from the pain.

And yet in spite of it all his eyes remained on Ford’s, and now with his eyes came words.

“I-it’s okay, Ford— AAAAAUUGH! F-fuck, It’s okay, it’s gonna be okay, ffffuuck…. F-Ford”

The man in question stood above it all, fists clenched so tightly they bled, keeping his count careful and deliberate as he accessed injuries. Stan was losing too much blood, surely it would stop soon, it had to stop soon— but there was blow thirty-two and somehow Stan was still awake, still calling out to him and he’d been so silent before and why would he—

“Thirty-eight!” Ford’s voice did not waver even as the whips trailed across the floor, left wet smears in their wake. He watched as Stan shuddered against the post, clearly senseless with pain now, felt his stomach heave as he caught sight of his brother’s back, bloodied and raw.

“Ford… _Ford_ …” His name was a prayer on his brother’s lips, a plea.

Ford had never hated his own name more than he did in that moment.

CRACK!  The final blow came down in nine perfect arcs, almost pointless in its artistry on the bleeding canvas Stanley’s back had become. Stanley barely had the energy to whimper at this point, his breathing coming out weak and shaking as he collapsed against the post.

“Stanley…” Ford’s voice cracked. In an instant he was down the stairs and at his brother’s side, barely taking notice of the way the restraints parted at his touch as if commanded. Stanley slumped bonelessly into his arms and Ford barely noticed the weight, cradling his brother’s broken body gingerly. “Stanley!? Oh God Stanley, I’m so sorry, can you hear me? Stanley!”

“Whoooooa, hold your horses there, Poindexter!” Stanley’s body glowed blue and abruptly Ford found his brother tugged from his arms. “Who said we were done here?”

Ford reached out futilely for his brother, too desperate at that point to care how absurd it must have seemed. “We agreed to thirty-nine!” He snarled. “The punishment is over, let him go!”

“Ah ah ah,” Bill tutted, wagging a finger. “Hang on. You mentioned that thing about tradition, right? Well, funny thing, I was around for that tradition… and y’see, the number of lashes wasn’t actually thirty-nine, it was _forty_.   You meatbags just stuck to thirty-nine because you didn’t wanna go overboard— I don’t see why, isn’t overdoing it half the fun?” He chuckled to himself and gestured. “You’re no ordinary meatbag, Stanford Pines. You don’t lose count. You know exactly how much your scapegoat’s taken.”

Ford felt something cold being pressed into his hands. He turned to catch Pyronica’s grinning face, her single eye glittering with amusement as the whip was pressed into his hands. The author paled. “You can’t be serious…”

“C’mon. It’s only one more, right?” Bill laughed. “By now, I’ll bet he’ll barely even feel it!”

Stan let out a groan as he was lifted in the air, all four limbs tugged in separate directions, body forced perfectly still and straight in a spread-eagled position. This gave Ford a good look at his back— red, raw, and bleeding, shoulders shaking with exhaustion and pain.

“…You’ll let me take care of him after this?” Ford whispered.

“Yeah, sure, whatever,” Bill shrugged. “One more and your punishment’s over for now, capiche? But hey, make it count.”

Ford felt sick. He took a deep breath. Closed his eyes, forced the feeling down. There was no place for this. Stanley needed help and he wasn’t going to get it here in the throne room. He’d have to play Bill’s game if he wanted to get anywhere, and there was only one way to play— by disconnecting himself and acting on intellect.

So he pulled his arm back, felt power in his muscles that he hadn’t known he’d possessed. Then he swung, felt the motion through his entire body, felt the connection from his hand to the whip to his brother. The crack echoed through the air, loud, so much louder than the rest, somehow nothing compared to the broken keen of Stanley’s voice— which made no sense of course because Stanley was barely conscious, that whine was more reflex and the quietest he’d been since the punishment began but to Ford it was deafening.

Nine lines burned across Stanley’s back, traced perfectly across the brand on his shoulder that seemed the perfect symbol for this whole mess. Then Ford dropped the whip with a bloodied clatter, rushed to Stan’s side in an instant, caught his brother before he hit the ground.

“Stanley!” Ford breathed out, cradling his brother against his chest. “Stanley, can you hear me? Stanley! Stanley, I’m so sorry, please say something, Stanley…”

Stan’s eyelids fluttered and he gave a weak groan. “F-Ford…?” He rasped out.

At the sound of his name, Ford let out something between a laugh and cry, pulling his brother close. “Oh God, oh God, I’m so sorry… I’m so sorry Stanley…”

“Ahem,” Bill cleared his throat— or at least made a sound like it, Ford had never been sure if the demon actually possessed a throat. “Right, so this whole tearful reunion thing is pretty awkward for me, not gonna lie. Also if you think this is over, you’ve got another thing coming. But seeing how you’re my Prince and all, I’ll let you go take care of him. He’s your scapegoat, after all.”

Ford scowled as he looked up from his brother to Bill. “Don’t act like this is some sort of kindness after all you’ve done here.”

“You.” Bill said simply.

Ford blinked.

“All _you’ve_ done,” Bill clarified. “Or did you forget what this is all about? This is about you and me, Sixer, always has been. Need I remind you whose lashes those were?”

Ford said nothing.

Again, the throne room smiled. “I think that’s a good note to end this lesson on, don’t you, My Prince? Go on, go take care of your little pet. We’ve got all the time in the world to talk, and I’m sure you two have some… catching up to do. Plenty of soap opera level drama there, I’m sure!” Bill waved them off. “But hey, remember to stick to the doors I tell you to… after all, I’m watching you.”

“This isn’t over,” Ford growled as he lifted Stan with a somewhat concerning amount of ease.

“Mmm-hmm. You’re my Prince, your brother is bleedin’ out on my floor and your niece and nephew are my ace in the hole if you don’t comply. Sure, sure it’s not over, keep telling yourself that.”

Ford wanted to argue, he really did. But in that moment all he could think of was Stan breathing weakly in his arms, whispering his name…

He’d lost, hadn’t he?

The author licked his lips, swallowed, then turned and left.

The room laughed after him.


End file.
